What Dreams May Come
by idle curiosity
Summary: They relive their fears in their dreams, and Will comes to a decision about Elizabeth's safety.


She dreams at night, sometimes.

She dreams they chase her relentlessly through her home, room after room, as she searches frantically for somewhere to hide. She peers through cracks, watching them sniff the air like dogs after prey, sees from their feral smiles that they know where she is - cornered, with no way of escape. They take her, dragging her through the ravaged streets of her town. She looks back in fear for any hope of help, but there is no rescue for her. When they put her town to their rudder, they take her as well. And she can't stop them.

_Helpless ..._

She dreams of beings with skeletal faces, bones without flesh, dressed in clothing that is nothing more than rags. They chase her round and round their ship, laughing uproariously when they catch her. They throw her to the moonlit skies for their amusement. When at last their sport is denied them at the whim of their captain, she flees to cower in a corner of the great cabin like a terrified child, finally believing in ghost stories, trying not to think of what other horrors await her that she can't stop.

_Defenseless ..._

She dreams of being turned over to the crew as the ship's new whore. They ring her like a pack of wolves on a wounded deer. Hands are everywhere as they try to bring her down, stroking her hair, pawing her breasts and ripping at her clothes. The stench of unwashed bodies is heavy in the air, wet mouths are open to eagerly kiss her lips, her neck, other places. Her skirts are being roughly lifted, hard fingers grope bruisingly at her thighs and her loins, broken nails scrape at her skin. She shrieks, because she can't stop them.

_Powerless ..._

He dreams at night, sometimes.

He dreams of seeing her surrounded by pirates, being dragged away to a cursed ship. She looks back in terror, and his name on her lips a desperate plea for rescue. He battles fiercely to reach her side, but he never does. His way is always blocked by pirates and townsfolk; he can never seem to move fast enough. Any ground he gains is immediately lost. He watches her get farther and farther away from him, and her name is a cry of devastation.

He never sees her again.

_Too late ..._

He dreams of finding her in a cave filled with gold and silver, yet she is his real treasure. They bend her over a stone chest, a knife at her throat. Frantic, he moves to save her, but he is held back by a pirate's grip on his arm and the command to "Wait for the opportune moment." Throwing him off, he races to get to her side, climbing a mountain of slippery gold that constantly shifts and moves under his feet, thwarting him. When he finally reaches her, he finds her sprawled at the foot of the chest like a carelessly abandoned child's toy. Her throat has been slit, her blood glistening against the pale skin like some hideous crimson grin. Her sightless eyes accuse him.

_Too late ..._

He dreams of swimming a wide expanse of ocean, fighting to get to a ship that is somehow always out of reach. The seas throw towering waves at him, pushing him under again and again. Weary beyond expression, he refuses to give up. Finally, he catches up, and climbs aboard to an eerie silence and an empty deck. Searching everywhere, he at last finds her crouched in a dark corner. Her dress is gone, her shift is torn into rags that pool around her. Bruised arms try to shield her nakedness, slow tears trail down her ashen cheeks as her eyes stare at nothing. He breathes her name in anguish.

_Always too late ..._

They never speak of their dreams, or of the fears that they evoke. They tell themselves, in the clear light of day and the safety of rational thought, that the dreams are nothing, for everything is fine now.

And the fears are buried deep, unresolved.

Until the day that Elizabeth comes, accompanied by her chaperone, to visit Will at the smithy for the first time as his betrothed. While she waits for him to finish his work, she wanders around the shop. Supremely curious, she explores nooks and crannies, poking and prodding, lifting tools, petting the donkey as he walks in his circular, well-worn path.

She comes to the rack of finished swords, and pulls one out. The finely crafted length of steel fascinates her, it always has. Her eyes begin to glow as she wraps her fingers around the grip. It feels right, she thinks, to hold this weapon. Meant, somehow. She makes a few experimental passes with it, and she smiles. There is a feeling that comes over her, one of power. It leaves her breathless.

Will watches her from his place at the anvil. Having returned an unfinished blade to the fire, he has a chance to study her rapt expression.

The sword seems right in her hand. She looks strong and capable. With careful teaching, he thinks, she could easily learn to use a blade. Elizabeth is intelligent, fearless, and has good instincts. Fighting side-by-side with her in the cave of the Isla de Muerta showed him that. She would be a quick study.

It is a radical idea, to be sure. But she would be able to defend herself, if he taught her.

The darkness of his dreams suddenly brushes chill fingers over the surface of his memory, and his mind is made up.

He takes up a rag to wipe his hands and then tosses it aside, coming to stand just behind her shoulder as she studies the blade. He sets his hands to either side of her waist, edging a little nearer.

"I think," he says with sudden, quiet intensity, "that you should learn to use it. I want to teach you."

Elizabeth quickly turns her head to meet Will's eyes. His gaze is unwavering, resolute. He means this, and his determination resonates inside of her, melding with the feeling of rightness and power that came with holding the blade.

"Yes," she is as fiercely decisive as he. And her hand tightens on the grip of the sword, the weapon that will banish both powerlessness, and the helplessness of being too late.


End file.
